Call information, maybe. Get the Speed-D-Mart’s number. Maybe somebody over there can tell me what’s going on.
She took hold of its handset and raised it to her ear.
Silence.
It’s dead?
Oh, great.
What if somebody cut the lines?
She’d seen that sort of thing countless times in movies and TV shows—but she supposed it rarely happened in real life.
With the Santa Anas howling outside, the probable culprit was the wind. Falling branches must’ve taken out some phone lines.
Duane might’ve tried to call.
But where is he?
Sherry hung up.
Phone or no phone, his destination was only two blocks away.
She returned to the living room.
10:56.
She turned on a nearby lamp. The brightness hurt her eyes and made her squint. Not waiting for her vision to adjust, she squatted between the couch and coffee table and picked up her panties. She pulled them on.
Next, she put on the short, pleated skirt that Duane had given to her last week. “In case you ever feel like dressing like a woman,” he’d told her. To which she’d responded, “Looks like you want a cheerleader.”
To which he’d said, “It’ll sure cheer me up.”
This was the first night she’d worn the skirt for him.
And now I’m stuck with it, she thought as she slid its zipper up.
She found her blouse on the floor behind the couch, right where she’d tossed it. Normally, she wore T-shirts and jeans when she wasn’t at work. But you can’t wear a T-shirt with a bright yellow cheerleader skirt, so she’d bought a special blouse for tonight. Lightweight and slippery, it was gaudy with scenes of jungles and lagoons and tropical birds.
As she fastened its buttons, she hurried around the couch. She picked up her socks and sneakers, then sat down long enough to put them on.
Her denim handbag was on the seat of a nearby chair. She grabbed it by the strap and hurried to the door. She paused at the door.
Have I got everything?
Clothes, purse, what else is there?
That should about be it.
She looked at the clock.
10:59.
Standing there, she waited for 11:00.
Did I blow out the candle?
Yes.
11:00.
Sherry opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. The entire length of the corridor was deserted. She eased the door shut until it latched, then tried the knob.
Satisfied that the door was locked, she headed for the stairway. All the doors along the way were shut. No sounds of people or televisions or music came from inside the rooms, but she could hear the wind howling and battering things outside the building.
What if nobody’s here?
What if everybody has vanished?
“Oh, that’d be a hoot,” she muttered.
And extremely unlikely.
This is real life, she reminded herself. Everybody doesn’t vanish in real life.
Not often enough to worry about.
Besides, she told herself, I heard sirens. And a gunshot. Maybe. They require the presence of people. So I’m not the last person left on Earth, or even in Los Angeles.
Maybe just in this building.
Smiling and shaking her head, she hurried down the stairway. In the lobby, she opened a side door and trotted down a flight of stairs to the underground parking lot.
Most of the spaces were occupied by cars and sport utility vehicles.
Duane’s assigned space was empty. His van was gone.
Okay, Sherry thought. He hasn’t made it back, but he got away from the building all right.
Probably.
From where she stood, she saw the security gate blocking the driveway to the street. She had no way to activate it, so she returned to the lobby.
As she pushed open one of the front doors, the wind caught it and tried to rip it from her grip. She held on tight, got outside, and leaned her back against the door to force it shut.
This isn’t good, she thought.
But it’s not exactly the end of the world, either. She’d been in strong winds before. To one extent or another, this sort of thing happened almost every year.
Pushing away from the door, she lowered her head and hunched over and started out. She trotted down half a dozen stairs and headed for the sidewalk. As she hurried along, the wind shoved at her, shook her skirt and blouse and threw grit against her.
When she reached the sidewalk, she looked both ways. There was no traffic on the street. Several cars were parked along the curb.
Too bad mine isn’t one of them.
Normally, for a dinner and evening at Duane’s, she would’ve driven herself. But her Jeep was back in the repair shop for the umpteenth time—this time for major, expensive transmission work.